


Dances & Diatribes

by stopcallingmeapollo (GayMarauders)



Series: Unrelated Theatre AUs [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancer Grantaire, Embedded Images, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Title from a Hozier Song, Trans Enjolras, Trans Male Character, dance as an excuse to touch while repressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23961652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayMarauders/pseuds/stopcallingmeapollo
Summary: There is nothing quite like a dance studio just before class. This one in particular is Grantaire’s favorite - the windows let the late afternoon sun fill the space, warming him as he pulls on his shoes and plants his feet, rolling down his spine until he’s hanging upside down. Soon students begin filtering in, a garish patchwork of spandex covering the floor as they warm up and chat amongst themselves in the few moments before class begins.He’s just about to call for the group’s attention on Madame Myriel’s behalf when the door opens again. The sun hits a halo of golden curls as the last student enters the room, and Grantaire’s heart drops into his stomach.Not him.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Unrelated Theatre AUs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/255784
Comments: 26
Kudos: 84
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations by the incredible [Lizzie](www.icarusislost.tumblr.com)
> 
> Prompts Used: Melody, Law of Complementary Colors
> 
> Warnings: Discussions/experiences of gender dysphoria, mentions of recreational drug use by adults (legal where written)

Enjolras stands in a crisp September sunbeam, doing his best to soak up the last of the dwindling warmth before he has to go inside. Beside him, Courfeyrac’s curls bounce as he gives an animated play-by-play of the latest off-Broadway production to an enraptured first year. Coming back to Earth at last, Enjolras assesses the situation and notes that he’ll need to send this boy to Musichetta’s comforting arms in a few weeks, when he inevitably discovers that Courf’s heart belongs to two men: Andrew Lloyd Webber and Combeferre. He checks his phone: 3:27. Three minutes left.

“I’d better go,” he mutters, shifting the straps of his backpack on his shoulders.

“Aaaaah, have fun! It’s such a great class, I love Madame Myriel. Just make sure you do the assignments, she’ll pass anyone who tries hard enough. And you can always ask the TA to meet you outside of class if you need it,” Courf adds, seeing the look on his friend’s face. “Trust me, it’s not anything crazy.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says ruefully. _This is what I get for putting off my movement credit til the last possible second._ He hugs Courfeyrac quickly before swiping his ID card and entering the unfamiliar building, scanning the room numbers until he comes to 246. For a single beat, as he places a hand on the heavy metal handle, his breath catches.

And then he opens the door.

* * *

There is nothing quite like a dance studio just before class. This one in particular is Grantaire’s favorite - the windows let the late afternoon sun fill the space, warming him as he pulls on his shoes and plants his feet, rolling down his spine until he’s hanging upside down. He spends a few more minutes stretching before Madame Myriel arrives with Jehan, greeting him warmly. He arches his back, cat-like, and crosses to the corner where she and Jehan are discussing music for the day’s lesson. Soon students begin filtering in, a garish patchwork of spandex covering the floor as they warm up and chat amongst themselves in the few moments before class begins. Grantaire looks over the sea of fresh faces, a wry smile creeping onto his face as he thinks about the joy and struggles awaiting the latest class of dancers. 

He’s just about to call for the group’s attention on Madame Myriel’s behalf when the door opens again. The sun hits a halo of golden curls as the last student enters the room, and Grantaire’s heart drops into his stomach. 

* * *

_Not him._

The thought echoes between the two men almost tangibly as their eyes meet across the floor. Enjolras offers a tight smile before striding into a corner and dropping his bag, facing the wall, heart pounding. _Shit._

Grantaire waits until Enjolras has pulled on his flats before calling the class together. He draws himself up to his full height, suddenly aware of the thirteen sets of eyes following him. 

“Hey guys! Welcome to Ballet Technique. I’m Grantaire, your TA. I graduated from the dance department last year, but I just couldn’t stay away from Baptistine here...don’t call her that, though, it’s Madame Myriel until you’ve perfected your _fouettés..._ aaaand it looks like she’s ready for you now!” He finishes abruptly, his voice slightly too loud and his lungs suddenly empty. 

“ _Bonjour,_ everyone,” Madame Myriel says smoothly, arching a single eyebrow slightly at Grantaire as if to inform him that she did not miss his sudden change in demeanor. “Welcome. Here we will build the foundations of all you do, so it is very important that you are present and prepared to work each day…”

The instructor’s voice seems to fade away the harder Enjolras tries to focus on her, Grantaire’s lithe frame drawing his attention from his periphery. The dancer is leaning against the piano, one leg swinging behind him every so often. Their gazes catch momentarily and Grantaire draws his leg into the air, one hand holding the arch of his foot. Enjolras swallows the urge to roll his eyes, turning back to Madame Myriel rather than indulge Grantaire’s clear bid for attention.

“...why don’t we share our names, pronouns, and concentrations now?” Madame Myriel prompts. The more outgoing students quickly introduce themselves, and Enjolras recognizes one from the first meeting of the Queer Student Union.

“I’m Cosette, she/her. I’ve been in ballet for twelve years, though I’ve taken some tap and jazz courses as well, so I suppose my concentration will be ballet! I’m really excited to spend the next four years with all of you.” As Cosette finishes, the class turns to Enjolras.

“Uh, hi. I’m Enjolras, he/him. I’m actually a fourth year directing student, so I...I don’t really have much of a background in dance. But I’m interested to learn about something outside my usual coursework.”

“Ah, yes, we always have one. You forgot your required movement credit, _non?_ ” Enjolras smiles and shrugs ruefully, and Madame Myriel laughs. “Well lucky for you, here we start from the beginning, no matter what you’ve done before. As I said, we are here to build the base of your abilities, something that everyone - even my lovely assistant here - can benefit from. Now, if you will all help me bring out the barres, we’ll begin with two _demi pliés_ and one _grand_ in first, second, and fifth...Enjolras, watch Grantaire if you get confused.”

“Will do,” he replies, his voice forcefully cheerie. He could swear he sees Grantaire smirk, and waits until the taller man has found his place and turned toward the mirror to take a spot at the barre directly behind him. 

“ _Êtes-vous tous prêts? Bien_. If you would be so kind?” She nods toward the piano, and as the music plays, they begin.


	2. Chapter 2

Thursday evening sees Enjolras firmly back in his element, carefully arranging a stack of Title IX pamphlets in advance of a discussion about student rights on campus. The Queer Student Union finally has a large enough classroom to accomodate their ever-growing numbers (and increasingly elaborate group art projects/protest sign making parties) this year, and he looks out across the large circle of desks with pride as he sits down to wait for the other members. This settled sense of accomplishment is short-lived, however, as the first wave to arrive brings Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Bahorel...and Grantaire. Courf immediately drops his bag on the desk next to Enjolras’s, bounding back to the others and animatedly rejoining their conversation. 

“Have you  _ seen  _ the costumes for the senior dance showcase?” Courfeyrac exclaims. “Bossuet says he barely has to light the stage, there’s so many sequins.” Feuilly shakes his head ruefully.

“I’m so glad I didn’t get tapped to design that shit. They’ve got some guest teacher directing it, and he is...not great. Javert, I think his name is? He’s from a French academy and he’s obsessed with tradition apparently. The non-ballet dancers are really having a time.” The others make sounds of assent.

“I remember taking classes from him a couple years ago...total hardass,” Grantaire says, turning a chair around and straddling it in a single motion. 

“Didn’t you graduate?” Enjolras cuts in. “Are you even allowed to be here?”

“I mean...technically. I walked last semester. But I still have a couple credits left to take care of - so don’t worry, you won’t have to suffer through your last year without me, Apollo.” He smirks when Enjolras flushes. 

“Do you really have to -”

“Continue my long standing tradition of providing comedic relief and keeping your membership up via my charming presence? You know it,” Grantaire says easily, waggling his eyebrows at Enjolras. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says dryly. “Do you think you might be able to contribute some actual ideas this semester, too?”

“We’ll see,” Grantaire says, winking. He’s pushing it a little, he knows, but after three years of goading a man who wouldn’t know flirting if it smacked him in the face, the risk of Enjolras realizing what he’s doing seems fairly low. And it would appear he was right, as Enjolras rolls his eyes and turns away.

_ He’s fucking infuriating, with all his little comments and faces and - and he really does bring people in somehow, lord only knows...And he sits like he  _ knows _ how hot he is. Fucking dance majors. _

The rest of the club has filtered in over the course of their exchange, sharing looks the two men miss completely as they trade barbs. Combeferre calls the meeting to order, and the group falls into its usual rhythm quickly - including Grantaire’s little interruptions, encouraged by some and tolerated by others. 

Soon a new project is taking shape, and Grantaire falls silent, watching as Enjolras seems to light up the room. He talks with his hands, moving animatedly when someone introduces a new point that excites him, connecting the threads until they’ve become a cohesive idea. There’s an ease to Enjolras, a natural rhythm that reminds Grantaire of a  _ grande allegro,  _ all sudden, sweeping movements and sudden bursts of energy. 

This reverie is veering into dangerously poetic territory, though, so he waits until a break in the rhythm to insert himself, ruffling Enjolras’s feathers as he plays devil’s advocate with the practiced skill of a twenty-three-year-old man. He does make one change to his usual routine, though -  _ just to keep him on his toes.  _ For the first time in his life, Grantaire voluntarily signs up to work on an extra curricular project. 

“You can always throw me out if I’m being too much of a dick,” Grantaire says, only half-joking, as he puts his name on the list.

“I’ve handled plenty of dicks, I think I can handle you.”

They both freeze for a moment, and Grantaire bites his lip, swallowing a laugh before he can reply.

“Well, I guess I’m in good hands then.”

Enjolras closes his eyes briefly, composing himself, then takes the paper back.

“Alright, on that note, I think that’s it for today, folks! Have a good rest of your week.” 

“You too! Feel free to call me if you run out of dicks to handle,” Grantaire says, grabbing his bag and nearly tripping over the chair he was straddling as he jumps toward the door before Enjolras can respond. Bahorel grabs him by the collar, dragging him through the door with an exasperated  _ ‘Boy…’ _

Enjolras watches them leave, cheeks warm, already dreading tomorrow’s class.


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras enters at the last possible moment, as usual. Finds his sun-warmed spot in the corner and drops his bag, reaching down to the bottom to find his shoes. Unlacing his boots and pulling on the technique shoes, he crouches in the corner until Grantaire claps his hands and calls the class together. The other dozen students quickly file to their places at the barres, and Enjolras darts between them to his spot in the furthest left corner, behind Grantaire’s usual place at the front. He draws himself up to his full, if sleight, height, eyes laser-focusing on the taller man as he prepares for the usual sequence of moves they begin every class with.

“Hey, everyone! Before we start, I have some good news, some other good news, and some bad news,” Grantaire announces from beside the piano. “The first good news is that Madame Myriel got an offer to choreograph a new take on  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ at the Metropolitan Ballet. Bad news is, that means she’s going to have a conflict during class time until the last two weeks of class, so she won’t be here.” He waits for the disappointed murmurs to die down before continuing. “The second good news - or maybe bad news, depends on your perspective - is that she trusts me to take over the class while she’s gone, so we won’t have to wait until the school can find a substitute.” The tension breaks quickly, the dancers smiling at the thought of continuing an Easy A class under Grantaire’s tutelage. 

_ This may as well happen,  _ Enjolras thinks, doing his best to keep his often-revealing face neutral. 

“We’ll be doing everything pretty much the same, with a couple of my favorite exercises if you guys can keep up, so let’s get started!” Grantaire nods at the accompanist: “Jehan, whenever you’re ready.” 

The first strains of an upbeat, familiar song fill the air. The usual knot in Enjolras’s stomach turns to lead as he looks ahead, coming face-to-face with his own small frame rather than Grantaire’s lithe and confident figure. He swallows, brings his hands to the barre, and begins.

* * *

Grantaire does not take his accustomed place at the front left of the room; instead, he moves steadily down the rows of students, observing and making adjustments as he goes. 

“...and  _ grand port de bras _ , bring it arouuuuund town, that’s right, and finish. Great! Let’s try those  _ rond de jambes  _ from first now, yeah? Everyone remember those bad boys?” He lets his eyes flick down the line to Enjolras, waiting until he sees him in the correct position to begin. “Nice. Leggo.” Jehan adjusts the music accordingly and they begin the new set.

His long legs carry him too quickly down the line, most of the other dancers requiring only the gentlest reminders to correct their technique, and soon he stands behind Enjolras. 

_ Alright. Here we go. Keep it professional, just check his form and move on. I’m the professor now. Channel Combeferre! _

He steps back slightly, watching Enjolras drag his toe against the floor in an awkward triangle. Stepping forward to correct him, Grantaire catches sight of Enjolras’s hand, his knuckles white as he grasps the barre. His jaw is set, the tension extending down his neck into his shoulders. He’s slightly behind the rhythm, his heel not meeting the ground as his foot passes forward, and Grantaire can’t make out any movement to indicate him breathing.

_ Ooooh, my god, he’s a  _ literal  _ tightass, isn’t he? Wait fuck no, eyes up, don’t check that. You’ve got enough to work with already. Ok. Just - be nice. Like with the kids at summer camp. Easy. _

“Hey, doing good Enjolras! Just try to relax a little, yeah? The barre is your friend, you’re not trying to strangle it. And bring your toe around in a circle, you’re not just hitting three points for this one. Try to brush the ground with your heel when you pass through first, if you can. Better! Great. Aaaaaand finish,” he says, turning away quickly. Enjolras’s jaw did not release during his speech, and Grantaire isn’t looking to fall under his thousand-watt glare during his first day as instructor. Instead he decides to skip to something more engaging than barre work.

“Oooookay, let’s get that blood pumping, yeah?”  _ Who am I?  _ “Let’s clear the barres and then  _ chasse _ ,  _ chasse _ , leap, leap, across the floor two-by-two. Cosette, would you demonstrate with me for anyone who doesn’t know what’s going on? Great. Let’s go!”

Bristling at the overly peppy feedback, Enjolras falls into his usual place at the tail end of the line for across-the-floors. Two by two, the other dozen students make their way quickly to the other corner, padding around the edges of the room to rejoin the line. Grantaire’s voice rings out through the space:

“Great! Don’t lose the rhythm - ONE-two-THREE-four-FIVE-six-SEVEN-eight - there ya go! Look ahead, if you look at the floor you  _ will  _ hit the floor, trust me -”

Finally Enjolras moves to the front, heart pounding as he preps alone and waits for Cosette and her partner to cover half the ground to cross the floor. Grantaire’s notes have already left his mind and his body, and he can feel nervous tension radiating down from his shoulders, his back stick-straight as he steps forward.  _ Ok, here we go. Chasse, chasse-- _

“Don’t forget to breathe!” 

Enjolras bites his lip in frustration, and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding just as he leaves the ground for the first time. He lands neatly, taking a step and launching himself again...and just as he allows himself a breath of relief, he lands hard on his right foot, his left passing it and pulling his body off-balance. He jerks himself upright immediately, face screwed up in frustration.

“Hey, that’s ok! You had it for a second. Ok keep going everyone, other side this time and then we’ll try some  _ chaine  _ turns.” The line begins moving forward once more as Enjolras hurries to the end, tightly returning Cosette’s sympathetic smile. 

* * *

The class ends, and Enjolras is heavy with sweat and frustration. He trudges slowly to his backpack, swapping his shoes and pulling out a hand towel to pat down his face and neck. By the time he’s packed up and ready to leave, the room is empty except for Grantaire and Jehan by the piano. Something keeps him on the floor, fiddling with the zipper on his bag, until Jehan has left. He stands and turns to the door, coming face-to-face with Grantaire.

“Did you need something?” Grantaire cocks his head slightly, leaning into one hip and trying his best to appear friendly, yet in control.

“Yeah, actually, you -”  _ Where am I going with this?  _ “You don’t have to patronise me, you know. I know I’m not on the same level as the rest of the class, but I can take the same critique you give them. Just tell me what I’m doing wrong and I’ll fix it,” he says, barely registering his own thoughts before the words leave his mouth.  _ Shit. _

Grantaire blinks in surprise.

“You really want me to go harder on you?”  _ Of course he does, have you met him? He doesn’t exactly have a praise kink - always pushing himself harder than he should. Not that I’m one to talk.  _ “Ok, how much time do you have?”

“What?”

“You told me to give you the same level of critique as the rest of the class. If you wanna be on their level, it’s gonna take a while to show you. Or you could just keep showing up and I’ll give you an A for effort,” he adds - he can’t help throwing in that extra taunt, can’t help goading Enjolras even outside his little meetings.

“I don’t have anything after this,” Enjolras states, setting down his bag and switching his shoes back. “Show me.” His chin raises defiantly, blue eyes meeting green until Grantaire nods, turning toward the mirrors.

“Ok. For one - and I can’t believe I’m saying this - you actually need to  _ unclench. _ ” He bites back a laugh at Enjolras’s expression. “It’s important to keep your uh - glutes - engaged so your hips are aligned, but the rest of you is waaaaaay too tense. It’s getting you off-rhythm because you’re not moving smoothly enough. Here, watch.” He goes to the bar, resting one hand lightly on it as he points his foot and extends his leg forward, drawing his toes out and to the back in a semicircle before allowing his heel to brush the ground as his foot travels straight forward. “See how smooth that was? Now watch when I tense my leg up.”

Enjolras’s eyes widen slightly as Grantaire engages the muscles in his calf and thigh - it’s easy to forget how  _ muscular  _ dancers are when watching them from a distance - and focuses hard on the now-stiff motion of his leg, which no longer traces a perfect semicircle on the floor.

“Ok, now you try.”

Enjolras takes his place at the barre, consciously relaxing the muscles in his leg before he repeats the motion. It feels different, he realises. More natural.

“Much better.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait, wait, wait, we’re just getting started. Stay at the bar. Now, when your arm is out, again, what am I gonna say? Release, there ya go…”

Enjolras grits his teeth, but accepts the corrections as the light in the studio slowly changes from bright yellow to a deep orange-gold.


	4. Chapter 4

Week seven begins differently than usual, with Grantaire gathering the dancers together before they set out the barres and begin warming up.

“As I’m sure most of you have heard by now, one of the traditions of the dance department is to end your first semester by throwing you into the deep end.” 

Enjolras glances around, brow furrowed, as the dancers smile and begin murmuring to each other. Cosette bounces in anticipation.  _ What does that mean?! _

“Every year, the Freshman - and whoever else joins us -” he nods at Enjolras - “Are asked to create a short duet using the technique you’ve perfected in this class - and any other courses you’ve taken. These will act as your final project, and you can invite anyone you want to come see what you’ve been working on! Madame Myriel will be coming back just in time to grade the performances. And no pressure, but most of the dance department tends to come see everyone’s pieces, so make sure you actually work on this in advance - Baptistine can tell when you throw it together the night before, as I discovered my first time taking the class.” A mix of distressed and teasing  _ oooohs  _ ripple through the assembled students. “You can choose your own partners; I’ll give you time to decide that at the end of class today. If you need help with anything, just let me know - I have time after class on Fridays for tutorials if you need them.”

Enjolras can hear his blood rushing in his ears, a feeling of doom settling over him.  _ I should have known.  _ Every department has its little traditions like this; in his freshman year, he performed his own small piece for the rest of the years in the theatre department. But this is different. These are people he doesn’t know, in a major that isn’t his, in a class he’s only taking because he forgot he needed the movement credit and overslept on registration day. This is far beyond his control, and he  _ hates  _ it.

The rest of the class goes by in a blur,  _ glissés  _ and _ chaines  _ and _ piques _ blending together until Grantaire stops to explain the project and then instructs them to cool down and select their partners. Enjolras immediately turns toward Cosette, the only familiar face. But, naturally, another student has already run over to her, grabbing her hand triumphantly and squealing about how she’s the perfect size to try a lift. He looks around hopefully, but he’s already done the math.

* * *

Thirteen students. One Enjolras. Grantaire knows what it’s like to be the odd one out, having been the single Sophomore in the technique class on his second time around. That year he’d managed to find a sympathetic Senior to partner with him, but he doubts Enjolras has that option. No, there’s only one logical and time-honored solution. Enjolras will have to partner with the TA. He gives it a few moments, then waves his hands to get the class’s attention.

“Alrighty, if you want to just come up and write the names of your pairs on my clipboard here” he sets it down on top of the piano “I’ll make a note of it in the assignment on Canvas. And make sure you have each other’s numbers before you leave today. If you have any questions right off the bat, I’ll be here for the next twenty minutes.” He waves to Jehan as they leave, then moves to start putting a barre away. Suddenly the weight of it lifts, and he staggers a little, looking up to find Enjolras supporting the other end.

“Looks like there’s an odd number,” Enjolras says, his voice measured. 

“Ah, yeah. Right.” They set down the barre and Grantaire runs a hand through his messy curls. “Well unfortunately there aren’t a ton of options, so I think you’re gonna be stuck with me,” he says apologetically.

“Of course,” Enjolras replies, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“What? Oh, I don’t - I mean, I’m the TA. I’m just kind of here as an extra partner usually.”

“Right. Well, give me your number and we can set up a time to talk?” He holds his phone out, a new contact already open. Grantaire takes it and quickly inputs his information before handing it back.

“Thanks. I’d better head out, but I’ll text you,” Enjolras says, pocketing his phone and turning away.

Grantaire watches him go, an unnamed emotion filling his body and giving him the uncontrollable urge to  _ move _ . Once the door has closed, he turns up the volume on his phone and chooses a song at random, takes a deep breath, and throws himself out into space, working the tension and nerves out of his body second by second, movement by movement.

He doesn’t notice the flash of gold at the window by the door, sharp blue eyes following his body as he alternately explodes and seems to suspend himself in mid-air. By the time he’s turned around, his audience of one has vanished, and he continues on alone until he’s exhausted himself.


	5. Chapter 5

_I have the studio booked for 3 hours on Saturday. Do you want to come around 1 and we can use the last hour to work out what we’re doing?_

Enjolras double-checks his messages one last time before opening the studio door. He can already hear the sound of music playing from the hallway, and he pokes his head in first to ensure he doesn’t interrupt anything. 

Grantaire is lying on the ground in the middle of the floor, his body contracting and releasing before he rolls forward into a crouch. He stills for a moment, pressing his hands to the floor, and then suddenly launches into the air, his body extended in a single fluid line as he seems to suspend in midair. Enjolras’s breath catches in his throat as Grantaire comes down, rolling onto his back and arching off the ground. He catches sight of an intricate web of tattoos as Grantaire’s muscle tank slips, and quickly drags his gaze away to the source of an unfamiliar sound.

A lanky girl with her dark hair in a messy bun is nearby, clicking away with a large camera as she moves around him, almost dancing with Grantaire. She glances over at Enjolras as he enters and gives him a quick nod. 

“This one of yours?” She asks Grantaire.

“Oh shit, yeah. He’s in my Freshman Technique class. Is it one already?” He runs over to the piano, where his phone is blasting music at top volume. “Well fuck. Hey Apollo, I was planning on filming this piece real quick so Baptistine could see it. Do you mind if I just run through it once and then we can get started?” Enjolras nods his assent, choosing to ignore the nickname as he sets his bag down in his usual spot in the corner. He sits down as he changes out his shoes, watching as Grantaire resets the music and his friend screws her camera onto a rickety tripod.

“Ep, can you hit play? Thanks babe.” He moves to the centre of the space, kneeling quickly and taking a deep breath as he sinks back onto his heels, eyes closed, head hanging loosely. The music begins and he pushes his hair back out of his eyes in a sustained echo of his customary gesture. Then suddenly he is _moving,_ his limbs extended in opposition, muscles rippling with effort as he literally throws himself off the ground and into the dance. Enjolras is transfixed. 

* * *

Grantaire does his best to ignore Enjolras as he waits for the music to begin, his hair falling forward over his face and blocking out the world as he centres himself. _Focus. It’s just you and the music. Nothing else._ The opening chords sound, and his body is moving - he’s done this piece too many times for even Enjolras’s presence to shake it from his body. He _knows_ it. 

By the time the song has ended, Grantaire is shaking, his knees hitting the ground softly, and the rest of his body coming down hard. He can feel sweat rolling down his forehead toward his eyes, and he wipes it away with the heel of his hand, grinning uncontrollably.

“Damn, boy!” Eponine’s voice cuts through the silence suddenly. He looks up at her, taking her offered hand and springing up lightly from the ground. 

“Good?”

“Amazing. I still wish we could find a better location, but that was perfect.” She turns off her camera, carefully unscrewing it from the tripod and hanging it around her neck by the strap. “I’d hug you but uh...ew,” she adds, looking Grantaire up and down. He laughs, grabbing a towel he’d left nearby for this very purpose, and pats himself down.

“Fair enough. Alright, Enjolras, you’re up.” He turns to him, gesturing him over. “Oh, by the way, Enjolras this is Eponine. She’s a film major, she’s doing a project using the piece I’m working on.”

“Oh! Hi, I’m Enjolr -”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about you,” Eponine interrupts wryly, shaking his hand as she takes him in. “You’re the reason Grantaire’s Thursday nights are always full.”

“Wh - oh, you mean because of the club. Yeah, sorry about that?”

“It’s fine, weed with my roommate is almost as good as weed with Grantaire,” Eponine snarks. “I’m actually impressed you’ve managed to motivate him to be so...civic-minded.” Enjolras makes a strangled sound, and Grantaire could swear he was trying not to laugh.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough of that. I’ll see you tonight,” Grantaire cuts in, shooing Eponine away. “I have a student to work with.”

“Right. See you,” she says, picking up her tripod and throwing Grantaire a look over her shoulder. Once she’s gone, he smiles ruefully at Enjolras.

“Sorry about that, she can be...a lot. She means well though.”

“Oh, it’s fine! She seemed...fun.” They stand silently for a moment. “So how long have you two been…dating…?” Enjolras asks awkwardly.

“How long have - oh, god, no, shit, that’s not - ha, is that what it looks like?” Grantaire exclaims, barking a laugh. “We’re not together. She’s a little young for me, and I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian, anyway. We just hang out, and she uses me for my body occasionally. For her film projects, I mean!” He adds hastily. Enjolras nods, one eyebrow raised and a small smirk playing across his face. “Anyway, the duet. Did you have any ideas for what you want to do? Since it’s your grade we can really take it any direction you want.”

“I’ve been thinking about it a bit. Are we supposed to be basing this off of existing duets? Because there isn’t a lot of material for two men,” Enjolras says. “Obviously based on our heights and the fact that it’s my grade on the line, you’re probably going to be the cavalier. But I want to avoid anything too gender-coded if I can, obviously.” He pauses, and Grantaire cocks his head, eyes widening slightly.

“The _cavalier_ , huh? Was somebody reading a ballet glossary last night?” He asks, incapable of passing up the chance to push Enjolras’s buttons. He’s surprised at the effect such a light prod gets, though, Enjolras’s body closing off as he straightens up, chin jutting out. Enjolras reminds Grantaire of the girls he danced with in high school, he realizes - all angry angles and bristles and posturing. 

Enjolras falls silent, tensing at Grantaire’s comment.

“I know things,” he says shortly, looking away. 

“Right.” He can feel Grantaire’s eyes on him for a long moment. “Well, let’s try something a little nontraditional, then, yeah? How about this?” He pulls up a song, a heavy beat layered over syncopated bass. “It has a great rhythm, we could play with speed and sustained movement.” Grantaire taps out the beat on his leg, watching Enjolras for his reaction. Enjolras only catches snippets of the words, but he can feel his heart syncing to the rhythm, an urge to move he hasn’t felt in years suddenly overtaking him.

_Tell me, tell me, tell me, aah…_

He lets his feet carry him, sliding out onto the floor and closing his eyes as he allows himself to let go and just _move._

_That’s the kind of love, I’ve been dreaming of…_

Enjolras spins, landing cleanly and freezing, feeling the beat in his pulse before throwing his body through space, limbs extended, all thoughts of technique and critique gone. 

_That’s the kind of love, I’ve been dreaming of…_

His arms drop to his sides, his chest heaving, a smile tugging at his lips as he turns back to Grantaire, suddenly self-conscious.

“I think we can work with that,” Grantaire says with a wry smile. “Just make sure to point those feet -”

“Got it,” Enjolras cuts in.

Grantaire takes a deep breath, then moves away from the piano to join him on the floor. 

“So, as your _cavalier -”_ _  
_ “Shut up and dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In true 2013 Fandom fashion, Grantaire's solo is based on [Sergei Polunin's "Take Me to Church" solo ](https://youtu.be/ozs_f4ZT9sw)


	6. Chapter 6

Grantaire enters the studio a few minutes early, but finds Enjolras has already beat him to it. Light classical music floats through the space as he warms up, his face a mask of concentration. Grantaire is about to make his presence known when Enjolras suddenly launches into a  _ fouetté,  _ his leg extending and darting around quickly as he turns. He lands awkwardly, catching himself hard on one foot, and Grantaire is sure that he isn’t perfectly aligned under his oversized red flannel, but the form of the movement is there.  _ When did he learn to do that? _

Curiosity aside for the moment, Grantaire interrupts him as he prepares to turn again.

“Hey Apollo, you ready to go?”

Enjolras starts, then rolls his eyes. 

“I have a name, you know,” he says as he deftly unbuttons his flannel and tosses it to the side. Grantaire quickly squashes the imagery that brings with it, taking a deep breath before setting his phone in its customary spot on the piano. 

“You mean your name  _ isn’t  _ Apollo?” He asks, one hand over his heart in mock shock. “But I could swear I saw your statue in the Louvre the other day…” He pulls up the rehearsal track before Enjolras can come up with a retort. “I made a cut of the song that fits the time limit. First verse, last chorus. And I kept the added intro from the music video so we have time to get into places at the top. Let’s see if we can finish choreographing tonight.”

“Sounds good. I was...here...when we ended, right?”

Grantaire nods, setting the music to start where they’d left off, and joins Enjolras on the floor.

“I think this would be a good place for a turn, if you’re comfortable?” Grantaire extends his arms over Enjolras, inviting him to take his hands. The first moment of contact seems to last longer than it does, both men holding their breath until they realize that nothing has broken or caught on fire, at least literally. 

Grantaire gently slides his hand down to Enjolras’s wrists, drawing them across each other, then returns his hands to their positions. “If you cross them like this, I can turn you...like this…” He guides Enjolras by his hands, helping him turn - his wrists uncrossing as he comes to face Grantaire, then crossing again as he faces front. “You don’t have to hold on so tight,” Grantaire says, almost whispering, painfully aware of the warmth of Enjolras’s body so close to his. “I promise you won’t fall.”  _ I won’t let you.  _

They try again, this time with Enjolras’s grip light, his hands turning in Grantaire’s easily. “Good. Again.” The music plays itself out as they perfect the turn. Eventually, the continuous motion becomes too easy, and Enjolras stumbles mid-turn, laughing in surprise as he breaks Grantaire’s hold to catch himself against his chest.

His laughter catches in his throat as Enjolras glances up at Grantaire, pulling his hands back and wiping his palms on his leggings.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re perfect. The turns, they were perfect, I mean. Until then.” Grantaire’s expression is inscrutable.

“What next?” 

They quickly break the odd energy between them, moving on to the next combination with an unspoken agreement not to address it. The hour passes slowly, Grantaire stopping Enjolras every few moves to correct his posture and technique because  _ You said you could take it, right,  _ his notes more demanding and brusque than before, until finally...

“Hey, can you give me an  _ attitude  _ turn, adagio?” 

Enjolras sighs, sure this is going to be another round of endless corrections -  _ but that’s what I signed up for.  _ He quickly steps away, preparing and then extending his left leg behind him, right arm curving over his head. He’s painfully aware of every inch of his body, every wobble and adjustment, muscles tensing as he tries to pull his chest upright despite the crackle of anxiety that lives there. He completes the turn and lowers his leg quickly, noting with surprise that he didn’t cramp for once. Grantaire’s face is unreadable, and he sighs.

“I know I need to work on balance a little -”

“We haven’t done those in this class.”

The statement draws Enjolras up short.

“Where did you learn that?” Grantaire asks. “Like you’re right, you’re a little off, but that’s not a move you’re supposed to know at all, so...I’d give you an A for extra credit.” 

“I...might have taken some classes before this,” Enjolras admits slowly.

“Why wouldn’t you tell Baptistine that when you started the class?” Grantaire asks, baffled.

“It’s been...a while. I figured it wouldn’t affect my performance in the class much. I’m nowhere near the same level as the dance majors, anyway,” Enjolras brushes him off.

“Where did you go?” Grantaire pushes. 

“...the Metropolitan Ballet,” Enjolras admits, waiting for the inevitable little gasp of surprise. Grantaire doesn’t follow the ballet world script, though, merely frowning down at him.

“How long were you there?”

“Why does this matter?” Enjolras says, shifting his weight. “Eleven years. I quit when I was sixteen.”

“So you’re telling me you were in dance for  _ eleven years,  _ and you didn’t think that was relevant information?”

“You’ve seen how I dance!” Enjolras says, his voice rising as he feels his face flushing. “Eleven years doesn’t matter, what matters is where I’m at right now. And my technique is terrible, you’ve seen it - I haven’t danced in years.”

“I could have been teaching you completely differently!” Grantaire tips his head back, huffing in frustration. “You know the names of the moves. You know what they look like. You know how to take corrections. Why have you spent this whole time standing behind other people at the barre like you don’t know what you’re doing?”

“Because I didn’t want to look at myself!” Enjolras is yelling, and he immediately lowers his voice. “Because if I’m watching someone else move, I don’t have to watch myself. I was hiding behind you, not watching you. And if you don’t know I know what to do, then there are no expectations for once.” 

Grantaire draws back slightly as Enjolras’s tone takes on an intensity he hasn’t heard before. This is a kind of vulnerability he could never have imagined, and it knocks the air out of him for a moment. For all his passionate speech making, Enjolras has never allowed himself to break in front of anyone, and the self-destructive artist in Grantaire can’t help but find it beautiful. He reaches out to lay a steadying hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, but the moment passes too quickly, and he’s shut out again as quickly as he was let in.

“I have to go.” Enjolras jerks his shoulder slightly, breaking away and moving to the corner to pick up his bag before Grantaire can protest. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He doesn’t bother to change his shoes or pull on his jacket, hurrying out before the pinpricks behind his eyes can turn into something else. 

Grantaire is left to watch him go, turning slowly to stare into the mirror as if he could somehow see what Enjolras sees there. After a moment his thoughts become too big for his head, and he begins to spin and stretch by turns, working through the jumble of emotions before he finally lands on an idea.


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras squares his shoulders before pushing the studio door open, trying to let his anxiety out on a breath. He enters to find Grantaire throwing himself into the air, his body almost parallel with the floor as his legs spin. He lands kneeling, his arm extended as if reaching out to Enjolras, chest heaving, eyes wide at his unexpected appearance. It’s an image straight out of a painting, Enjolras thinks. It’s all over in a second, though; he smiles and stands.

“Sorry, sometimes you just gotta... _whoosh.”_ He makes a flipping gesture with his hands. “That was a _revoltade._ Although I guess you know that, huh?”

“It was a really good _revoltade,”_ Enjolras says, impressed.

“Why, Apollo, are you - praising me?” Grantaire exclaims, playing up the little spark of surprise he feels in his chest. Enjolras catches the vibe and rolls his eyes dramatically, thankful for the return to their comfortably adversarial dynamic.

“Don’t get used to it. What are we focusing on today? I know the timing in the middle has been a little off every time.” He takes off his leather jacket, shivering slightly in the cool air of the studio, and sets it on top of his things. Grantaire watches him stretch in his leotard and leggings, going over his next move in his head before he thinks _fuck it_ and steps forward.

“Actually, I think we need to work a little bit on expression as well as technique today,” he says. Enjolras rolls up from his stretch just in time to catch the fabric Grantaire flings at him. 

“What’s this?”

“Your costume.”

Enjolras unfurls the green fabric and discovers Grantaire’s own signature green hoodie. It’s soft from years of wear, the cuffs slightly frayed, and smells faintly of cigarette smoke and detergent. Enjolras fingers the fabric before looking up hesitantly.

“I want you to focus on dancing, not on what people see,” Grantaire explains. “You can pick something else for the actual performance, but for now, I figure it will help you focus on feeling the dance in your body, instead of...what you see in the mirror. Or what you think other people see.” Enjolras stares down at the fabric in his hands, then smiles.

“Thank you.”

“This does mean I’ll need to uh - touch you occasionally, to check your posture and stuff. But I figure since we’re partners you’re used to that at this point, so -”

“It’s perfect,” Enjolras cuts in. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

When the hour is up, the two men breathing heavily out of rhythm with each other as they grin uncontrollably, Enjolras takes off the hoodie and holds it out to Grantaire.

“Keep it,” he says, pushing the outstretched hand away. “You can keep wearing it to practice until you decide what you want to wear for the performance. You were incredible tonight.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Enjolras replies, that familiar sarcastic edge returning to his voice as he carefully folds the hoodie and stuffs it into his bag.

“Well, you were better, then. Much better. And you aren’t allowed to fight me on that, I’m your teacher,” Grantaire says hastily, cutting Enjolras off before he can protest.

“Fine. I was better.” Enjolras repeats. And then - “Thanks.”

“Of course.” 

“I should get going, I have a test in history tomorrow that I haven’t read the last chapter for. Same time next week?” Enjolras quickly makes for the door before any awkwardness from their last encounter can return in the absence of constant movement.

“Sounds good. And keep working on - “

“I know, I know. Goodnight, R.” Enjolras is halfway down the block before either man notices the nickname, the casual familiarity striking both of them at the same moment. 

_He called me R._

_That’s...different._


	8. Chapter 8

They go harder the next week, Grantaire pushing Enjolras and repeating sections more intensively than before. His hands, though light, travel down Enjolras’s body often, turning his legs out or pulling one higher, occasionally pressing against his lower back to correct his posture. At first it’s a nuisance, and Enjolras has to bite his tongue at the tenth correction in as many minutes. But as they become less frequent and more subtle, Enjolras finds he minds them less - the warmth radiating from his partner’s hands as he gently moves him almost soothing. 

He closes his eyes briefly and opens them to find Grantaire watching him, his hand lingering on his calf as he kneels to adjust Enjolras’s position. They’re caught there for a split second before Grantaire breaks it off.

“That’s probably good, yeah? You barely need me anymore,” he says loudly, rising quickly.

“I need you!” Enjolras protests. Grantaire’s heart nearly skips. “You’re my partner. You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

“Ah, right.”

They gather their things quietly until Enjolras breaks the silence.

“Hey, I wanted to - I think I owe you an explanation after what I said a couple weeks ago.”

He pauses, and Grantaire watches him, the silence heavy with something unsaid. Then, finally - “I danced for  _ years.  _ I loved it, I really did.” His voice cracks.

“You don’t have to explain,” Grantaire interrupts, brow furrowing in concern. But Enjolras shakes his head. He’s never told anyone this before, never discussed it, never explained. He needs to. Grantaire can see it, and he sits a foot away, long legs folded as he leans in attentively. Enjolras joins him on the floor.

“I was a favorite at my school. One of my teachers took me under her wing; she was convinced I was going to be amazing. I didn’t really know if I wanted to dance as a career, but it was more attention than I got from my parents, and I needed that. Then I was fourteen - my body started - changing - I started to fall behind. I hated watching myself in the mirror so much, hated the leotards and everyone staring at me. Finally I realized  _ why  _ I was so uncomfortable and I made the mistake of telling her.” He takes a deep breath. “It became clear pretty quickly that I could transition or I could dance, but I couldn’t do both. Courfeyrac had just transferred to my high school that year, and he wanted someone to audition for a play with him, so I just...did it. I left class one day and I didn’t go back. At first I had a lot of tiny roles in plays, but I got to be myself onstage for once. And then I realized I had a gift for directing.” He pauses again before forging on, his tone softening. “I don’t regret it. I love theatre. I love how there’s never a right answer, and getting to work together with so many people, and sending a message to the audience and connecting with them this way. I think I’m on the right path now. But I wish that dance hadn’t...ended like that.” 

Grantaire reaches out, almost without thinking, and takes his hand. They sit like that until Enjolras speaks again, his voice shaking slightly.

“I’ve never told anyone that.”

“I’m glad you told me,” Grantaire says earnestly. 

“So am I.”

“What do you want to do now?”

“I think I want to dance,” Enjolras says, rising. “Come on, we can get that last transition in the middle smoothed out. If you have time, that is.”

“I think weed with Eponine can wait,” Grantaire says dryly, going to reset the music. 

By the time they’ve finished, they’re both sweaty and sore, and the dance is  _ good _ . Not perfect, but better - smoother, more organic - and Grantaire can see the determined gleam in Enjolras’s eyes that always draws him in during meetings starting to shine through as he moves. It’s hypnotizing, he thinks as he walks Enjolras to his bus stop. 

Rain begins to hit the sidewalk as they arrive, squeezing into the bus shelter alongside other commuters. They talk about nothing and everything for the next twenty minutes - more genuine conversation than they’ve managed in three years of not-quite-joking antagonism, and there’s a silently acknowledged regret when the bus arrives and cuts their time short. 

Through the bus window, Enjolras watches him, the rain in his dark hair shining under neon store lights as Grantaire walks away.


	9. Chapter 9

The hallway outside the studio is buzzing as the dancers wait, the unique combination of anxiety and utter confidence only found in Freshman performers keeping them all alive as they experience a hundred tiny heart attacks - _where’s my hair tie, did we get that new cut of the music, if she doesn’t notice how high my développé_ _is I’ll riot…_ Grantaire grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet and dropping into a squat to stretch as they all wait. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he quickly mutes the alarm, pushing between the dozen keyed-up dancers to get to the studio door and poke his head in. 

The room is packed with dance majors and several confused-but-enthusiastic members of the Queer Student Union, who immediately turn to wave and holler for his attention. He smiles at them before scanning the room, noting a freshman film major - _Mattias? Marcus?_ \- finishing setting up a camera with Eponine, and Madame Myriel weaving through the crowd, exchanging air kisses with anyone who will lean over far enough for her to reach. She turns to him after a moment and gives a thumbs up, her eyes sparkling. He nods, withdrawing from the doorway and facing the group in the hall.

“YOOOOOO!” He calls, and the hall falls silent. “We’re about ready to go now. Line up in order, and wait until you hear your number called to go in. You know the drill.” He smiles down at them, making eye contact with each student until he’s scanned to the back of the line - _Enjolras._ He props the door open slightly so they can hear Madame Myriel call them, then makes his way straight to his partner. “Where’s your costume?”

“This is it.” Enjolras extends his arms as if to present the hoodie to Grantaire. “I haven’t taken it off since you gave it to me,” he admits quietly. “It’d be bad luck to stop now.” Grantaire’s heart beats a little faster at the thought of Enjolras wearing his jacket - which is ridiculous, really, since he’s been rehearsing in it for weeks. But it’s different somehow. Real. People will _see_ him in it, will know that it’s his. He smiles.

* * *

“I can’t believe I got leggings in _your signature red_ and we won’t even match now.” 

Enjolras looks down and takes in Grantaire’s legs, laughing out loud.

“I think it will be clear what’s happening.” He lets his gaze move back to meet Grantaire’s, his heart suddenly skipping a beat. _What_ is _happening, anyway?_ But before he can say more, the first song begins to play, and a hush falls over the group in the hall. He grabs Grantaire’s hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight as they wait in silence.

* * *

Cosette and her partner run to take a seat amongst the crowd, and Madame Myriel takes their place to announce the final duet, the QSU members in the audience losing their minds before she can even finish saying Grantaire and Enjolras’s names. 

“They will be dancing to Hozier’s _Dinner and Diatribes._ Maestro?” She nods to Jehan, who smiles and hits play.

Enjolras and Grantaire enter to a quiet, wordless keening, Grantaire crossing the space quickly to kneel stage left as Enjolras drags his feet slowly behind him with every step hands clasped behind his back.

_That’s the kinda love, that’s the kinda love, that’s the kinda...oooooh…_

Enjolras stills as the music fades out, then bursts into motion as the beat comes in strong, a whoop echoing through the room when he begins a series of spins. He beams, his heart racing - he can’t help it. 

_I knew it from the first look of, the look of mischief in your eyes…_

Here he touches Grantaire for the first time after circling him, the taller man springing up to join him in a series of synchronized movements across the floor.

_I’d suffer hell if you’d tell me…_

Grantaire is behind Enjolras now, his chest nearly pressed to his back.

_What you’d do. To me. Tonight._

With each drumbeat Grantaire slides his hands down Enjolras’s arms, guiding them up so his wrists are crossed, then suddenly spinning him. Enjolras can faintly hear his friends cheering, the world a distant roar as he focuses on the movement - on Grantaire.

_...That’s the kinda love...I’ve been...dreaming of…_

Suddenly the pace slows, Enjolras letting his movements sustain as if suspended in time as Grantaire whips around him. When he feels Grantaire’s touch, he lets himself be brought back to the beat, speeding up to match his partner. He can feel it pounding through his veins, his world narrowing to the music and the movement and the electric feeling of Grantire’s hands on him. He breaks away almost a second too late, rushing to cross the floor and turn to face Grantaire, his lungs aching as they reach the climax of the piece.

_That’s the kinda love...I’ve been...dreaming...of…_

Suddenly he’s running, eyes focused on Grantaire as he launches himself into the air in the ultimate act of trust -

\- and strong hands catch him by the waist, his own hands steadying him against Grantaire’s broad shoulders as he looks down at him. They freeze there for what feels like forever before he slides smoothly down Grantaire’s body and lands as the last note plays. 

They stay pressed together for a moment too long as cheering erupts in the audience, finally breaking apart and going to sit with their cohort as Madame Myriel gives closing remarks. The rest is a whirlwind of activity and sound as their friends congratulate them, the commentary becoming increasingly raucous as they dissect the piece. Finally, the studio clears out, and Grantaire and Enjolras find themselves alone in the hallway, both having found an excuse to stay behind as the others left.

“That was -”

“Amazing,” Enjolras says, beaming. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.” It’s awkward, but he means it. Grantaire hitches the strap of his dance bag higher on his shoulder. “I’m glad we were finally able to work together, after all this time.”

“Me too. And we still have the QSU project,” Enjolras adds quickly. “You’re not getting rid of me anytime soon.”

“Right.” The old awkwardness is creeping back in now, and Grantaire can feel his heart sinking. _Of course it couldn’t last._ “I think you forgot to take my hoodie off,” he says, holding a hand out and arching one eyebrow. “Show’s over, Apollo.”

Enjolras looks down, considering. He’s gotten used to wearing it, he realizes - he’s not ready to take it off.

“I told you,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “It’d be bad luck to take it off now.” And then, because he’s feeling bold, and because he’s just danced harder than he’s ever danced in his life, and because it’s _Grantaire,_ and everything has to be a challenge with him - “But if you’d like to take it off me, you’re welcome to try.” He stares right at him then, straight into his eyes, hoping against hope he hasn’t misjudged. 

“Don’t think I won’t,” Grantaire replies, something like his usual smirk playing across his face. “But first, I think I’d rather -”

And then all at once they’re kissing, and it’s a little like dancing - that first awkward movement, eyes tight shut, and scared; and then moving together, breathing together, hearts beating together. And the promise that they will fit even better with practice, Enjolras thinks. And then he doesn’t think anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> This fic became an unexpected way for me to say goodbye to my own art school experience as I graduate, and it was so lovely to return to my roots as a dancer to figure out how to describe the movement. I hope you enjoyed reading it and seeing Lizzie's beautiful illustrations!
> 
> If you'd like me to write you a fic like this one, [check out my blog.](https://stopcallingmeapollo.tumblr.com/commissions)


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